Is that a carrot in your pocket?
by Dapper
Summary: After the war with Voldemort has ended, Harry seeks the peace he cannot find within his own world. He finds himself on an adventure he could never have expected, while discovering the truth about his real origins.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Is that a carrot in your pocket?

**Author:** dapper scavenger

**Type:** FPS

**Pairing:** Will be slash

**Rating:** PG for now. Will likely increase later.

**Disclaimer:** Tolkein's & Rowling's. Not mine.

**Summary:** After the war with Voldemort has ended, Harry seeks the peace he cannot find within his own world.

**Author's Notes**: A very silly plot bunny I had. I'm not sure if it will go anywhere yet.

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It was cold.

Sweet Merlin, it wasn't just cold. It was freezing. Harry was shivering before he had even regained consciousness.

A guttural groan escaped his dry, chapped lips. His entire body ached and his head throbbed with a dull pain. Forest green eyes cracked open, hazy with confusion, and blinked once, twice.

Where on earth was he?

Rolling hills and fields stretched out as far as the eye could see. Lonely trees and small, prickly brown bushes were the sole occupants dotting the barren landscape.

A persistent wind blasted his naked form, chilling him to the bone. He could not stay here. He would die of exposure before the day was out!

With practised efficiency, he took stock of his situation. He was alone, in a strange land, with no supplies to speak of. How could he have misjudged so badly? He had spent hours carefully choosing and preparing the items he would need, such as hard-wearing clothing, his precious photograph album and his invisibility cloak. Each had been meticulously cleansed and enchanted to allow them to pass through with him.

Not even his glasses had made the journey, he realised with a startled exclamation. How was it that he could see so clearly without them? He rubbed his eyes, not entirely convinced he wasn't deluding himself, only to gape in surprise when they focussed again. His vision was perfect. Was this some side-affect of the ritual?

A fresh gust of wind caused him to shiver again and he clutched his arms close to his bare chest. Perhaps now was not the time to be fretting over errors past, he mentally chastised. Without his wand he was in a predicament. It would have been such a simple matter to conjure some clothes and ascertain the nearest town. As it was, he barely had enough reserves left in him to cast a wandless warming charm.

Even that tiny bit of magic left his dizzy and breathless. He urgently needed to rest and gather his strength.

Now that he had dealt with the immediate danger of hypothermia, he stood to gaze over the landscape. Harry had long considered Scotland to be the most beautiful country he had ever seen; its magnificent lochs, carved-out glens and rugged, rocky outcrops were breathtaking in all their untamed glory. Compared to the remote, desolate wilderness he suddenly found himself in, however, Scotland may as well have been a bustling metropolis.

There was no sign of any people. Had the ritual gone wrong?

It was supposed to find him a new home, a new life where he could have the peace he had always craved. The war had been so hard on him. On all of them, really, but Harry in particular had felt its impact. There were many hardships and losses: Sirius, Hermione, Remus, to name but a few. Finally, after years of toil, of alternating hope and despair, he had defeated Voldemort.

It had come too late for Harry. While the rest of the wizarding world breathed a collective sigh of relief and plunged themselves into weeks of celebrations, he had nothing left worth celebrating.

He had tried to disappear. He had emigrated, twice in fact, but his fame preceded him. He tried to lose himself in the muggle world, taking jobs as a general labourer but he would invariably be tracked down by insistent reporters and journalists, each hoping to get the exclusive article on exactly how Harry Potter had defeated the Dark Lord.

It was an act of desperation; this crossing of worlds. He had never expected to use the information he'd found in his family vault but he could no longer endure the constant torment of reliving his memories. It did not matter if he did not have wealth or prestige in whatever world he ended up in. He wanted to forge a new life and to find something worth living for. Surely there must be something out there which would make his continued existence worthwhile?

So it was with hopes of finding peace he had traversed the planes between worlds. He smiled wryly to himself as he took in his surroundings. This bleak and utter silence was not quite the peace he'd had in mind.

At least he would not starve. Nor would he have to suffer the cold once his pathetically weak warming charm wore off. After all, he might not be able to perform complex, draining charms without his wand, but innate blood-magic was a different matter altogether.

He filled his thoughts with the feel of wind whistling about his ears, the scent of sun-warmed hay and the taste of sweet, wild grass. The sound of hooves thudding against soft earth reached his ears and suddenly he was running. His hot breath formed loose puffs of steam in the cold air as the creature within him was let loose.

Exhilaration overrode his exhaustion. He was free! The independent spirit of his animal form revelled in the feeling. He had made it!

Harry could have laughed with joy. As a horse, however, his only means of expressing his triumph was to let loose a ringing neigh at the sky above.

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Harry snorted ruefully. Galloping madcap across the plains while suffering from magical exhaustion had not been one of his better ideas. After stumbling to a sweating, trembling stop, he had been barely managed to find shelter amongst a formation of rocks before succumbing to his body's demands for sleep.

He had awoken to the same bleak landscape that he had so hastily travelled the day before. At least he thought he had only slept one night. Restoring one's magic could take days, depending on the ambient levels in one's surroundings. The more magical a place, the quicker it returned. Harry had a feeling that there was plenty of latent magic in this land. The air fairly crackled with it.

It was odd, though. Such an overtly magical place as this should be a nexus for wizarding kind. He wasn't sure if he liked the implications of that. Either there were places with even greater dormant magic somewhere in this world, or there simply weren't any witches or wizards here. These were not reassuring thoughts.

First things first, he decided, lowering his head to tear at the rough clumps of grass. He could not think on an empty stomach.

Becoming an animagus had not been what he'd expected. He'd rather hoped his animal form would have been something a little bit more exciting. He had speculated over it long and hard, thinking perhaps his form could help him in his fight against Voldemort. A hawk, for example, would have provided him with the means to spy from above and escape tricky situations. A Gryffindor lion would have been a mighty asset in a battle. He had even thought he might be a stag, like his father.

What he had not expected was to turn into a horse. A horse, of all creatures! What good was that?

His transfiguration teacher had berated his obvious dismay in her usual brisk manner. It was Hermione who had convinced him to accept his form.

"That's fantastic, Harry!" she had gushed. "I can't believe you've mastered such a large and difficult form!"

"But I'm a horse, 'Mione. How is that going to help me?" he had whined in return. Hermione had rolled her eyes and, rather predictably, turned to her books for an answer.

"The horse is a symbol of freedom and represents the ability to overcome all obstacles. They are adventuresome creatures who will be driven to discover their own direction. Horses are said to be able to sense the good or evil within people and are gifted with enhanced insight and intuition. They are venerated for their grace, nobility, familial devotion and loyalty to their friends."

"It says all that about me?"

Hermione had laughed at his dumbfounded expression. "Oh, Harry, it's perfect! How could you be anything else?"

Harry's spirits had lifted with every word she'd said. So what if he was not a sleek hawk or a majestic lion? A hawk would have soon tired fighting against these strong winds. A lion would not have found prey in these barren hills. As a horse he could endure here indefinitely. Or at least as long as it took him to find civilisation.

He hoped it would not take too long. He did not mind being in his animagus form; it was as much a part of him as his human form. He knew from experience, however, that the longer he spent as a horse the more 'horse-like' his thoughts would become. While it was all well and good to find nourishment from the land, he had been rather disturbed one day when he realised he was comparing different varieties of grass much in the way one would compare flavours of ice cream.

The patch he was currently gnawing on reminded him somewhat of mint choc chip. As a horse he thought it delicious. It was just a little bit weird.

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	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Is that a carrot in your pocket?

**Author:** dapper scavenger

**Type:** FPS

**Rating:** PG for now. Will likely increase later.

**Disclaimer:** Tolkein's & Rowling's. Not mine.

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Four cold and windy days passed before Harry spotted signs of civilisation.

It was a tiny thing, the merest scrap of cloth fluttering in the breeze where it had snagged against the thorny branches of a shrub, but the sight of it had brought such a profound sense of relief that Harry had swayed on the spot. Having four legs was useful sometimes; he was certain he would have ended up on the ground otherwise.

He had been so afraid that there was no life here, that he would spend the rest of his days in loneliness. Harry thought he would have eventually gone mad if that had come to pass. To find woven cloth, though, meant that there were people somewhere in this world. He just had to find them.

He pressed his equine nose to the scrap and took a great lungful of air, nostrils flaring. It bore the faintest of scents: a musty trace of stale, masculine sweat, so deeply ingrained into the fabric that not even the blustery weather had cleansed it.

Harry shook his head to rid himself of the stench. Disgusting! Who would wear anything that dirty?

Further examination of the area soon revealed patches of trampled grass. Harry took off at a brisk trot. He would have gone faster, so excited was he at the discovery, but he dared not risk losing the trail.

A few hours later and a new scent wafted to him on the breeze. This one wasn't particularly pleasant either. It was one Harry with which was all too familiar: the acrid stench of death. His lips curled back in distaste and he slowed to a wary walk.

In the distance several dark shapes lay upon the ground. Harry slumped as despair took him anew. He had finally found people.

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It was a few minutes before Harry was able to collect himself. He steeled his thoughts; he would not indulge in this pointless self-pity! He was a war veteran, for Merlin's sake! He knew better than this!

Resolve restored, he made his way over to the bodies. Perhaps he could find some clues as to their origins. At the very least he could arrange them in a more dignified manner and say a few words to honour their passing. He could also, though he did not care much for the idea, scavenge for clothing and other supplies.

As he drew near he stared in surprise for, while some of the bodies were as human as himself, a fair few of them were unlike anything he had seen before. They were as ugly as goblins, as black as thestrals and stank worse than troll droppings.

Horses are physiologically unable to vomit. Harry felt his roiling stomach vying to contest that scientific fact.

While not one for judging by appearances, Harry was fervently glad he had not met one of these creatures while alive. He felt that there was something distinctly unpleasant about them. He would not want any of their clothing, that was for certain! He shuddered and moved on to inspect the men.

They had been some sort of soldiers, these men. They wore strange armour over padded cloth, dark green cloaks and silver helms. Spears and swords lay littered amongst the bodies. There were dead horses too, still saddled and bridled, matted with mud and blood. This had been a battle.

Movement!

Harry jumped sideways, suddenly alert. His ears flickered back and forth as he searched the landscape. He had seen something move! What was it?

A harsh groan reached his ears. Harry stiffened in shock. One of the bodies on the ground was staring right at him with bright blue eyes framed by encrusted blood.

"Horse…" the man croaked, though it was clearly a struggle for him to speak.

Harry was singularly impressed when the man clawed at the earth in a vain attempt to rise. He had thought the man dead, with injuries that severe. Well, he would not stand by while someone needed his help!

He cast the warming charm once more before resuming his human form. The stranger stared at him with a glazed expression, a puzzled furrow in his brow.

"It's alright. I have you now," Harry soothed, his voice cracking after so many days of disuse.

The man only looked at him, eyes wide with awe and confusion. "Béma?" he whispered.

Harry did not know who or what this 'Béma' was and he didn't much care. He had other priorities. The man was dying in his arms and Harry was a fighter, not a healer. He knew only the basics of battlefield first aid.

"Episkey," he murmured. A relatively minor healing charm but one he was confident enough to use wandlessly. It would stem the blood loss at least.

The man's eyes had fluttered shut again. Harry growled in frustration. He had not searched this long only to be denied now!

"Episkey!" he cast again, more forcefully this time, and then, as an afterthought, sent the warming charm at the man as well. He felt for the man's pulse. It was weak, very weak, but steady. He had to get this man to a healer soon.

Harry took a breath. He really hated it when he had to do this.

As carefully as he could he lifted the man onto his back and draped the limp arms over his shoulders. When he was as secure as he could make him, he began the careful animagus transformation once again.

Even unconscious, the strange man clung to him like a limpet. He had a natural seat, his new rider, as though he had ridden horses for most of his life. Perhaps he had.

There was no time for further consideration. Harry picked up the trail once more, at the briskest walk he could set without losing his precious burden.

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The wind had turned fierce as night fell but Harry could not afford to stop. He had felt the storm brewing. When the first crash of thunder rolled over the landscape he had not even flinched. When the first drops of rain fell he had not paused.

The man's life depended on it.

He slogged onwards, mud caking his legs and belly and rain drenching him from head to hoof. The trail was washing away before his very eyes!

When he first saw the flicker of light in the distance he thought he had imagined it but as he continued that light had become two, then three, then a dozen. A town? A village? He only just resisted the impulsive urge to pick up his pace and run for the promise of shelter.

The trail turned into a well-worn path. Out of the darkness a huge settlement took shape. Harry snorted in surprise. He would never have missed this place in the day! It was impressive: a great fort on a hill, surrounded by a solid wooden palisade.

"Hark! Hark!" came a cry from the dark. Harry stopped in his tracks.

The massive gates opened and two men ran out.

"Ho, there, ho, brave one." One of them approached Harry, clucking softly while reaching for his mane. Harry did not object. He doubted these men had any evil intent; not with the gentle way this one was treating him.

"Godléan!" the other cried out. "It's Godléan! He's still alive!"

There was a flurry of movement then. They led Harry into the settlement and took the injured man from his back, swiftly whisking him into one of the buildings. So his name was Godléan, Harry mused. He hoped he would be alright.

"Ealdor, fetch Gifu," the gentle man said. "This horse has saved his father's life."

Harry didn't quite know what to do. He desperately wanted to resume his human shape and speak with them but now was not a good time. He was naked, for one, and that rarely went down well. For another, he had no idea how these people would react to such a blatant display of magic. They looked rather, well, primitive.

He made other observations, too, as the gentle man led him to a stable. The buildings were made of wood and thatch. The lights were candle and lamp. The streets were narrow and, unfortunately, lacking in anything resembling a decent sewer system.

Harry tried not to think about that last bit.

Most intriguing of all was their language. Harry was relieved to find that they spoke a language very similar to Nordic. There had been the odd word that he could not make out but, for the most part, he understood them as well as if they had been speaking English. He was never so glad to have learned Ancient Runes!

The stable was warm and dry and Harry was deeply thankful for it. He hadn't realised just how wet and cold he was. He wondered if the gentle man would groom him but then Ealdor reappeared with a young boy in tow.

"Here he is, Gifu."

Gifu looked about ten years old, skinny-limbed and scruffy-haired. He stared at Harry with enormous, watery-blue eyes that shone with gratitude. Harry stretched out his neck and took a good whiff of him. Yes, this was definitely Godléan's son, but why had they brought him?

The answer, of course, became apparent the moment Gifu took up towel and brush and proceeded to give Harry the most efficient, most thorough and most satisfying grooming of his entire life.

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	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** Is that a carrot in your pocket?

**Author:** dapper scavenger

**Type:** FPS

**Rating:** PG for now. Will likely increase later.

**Disclaimer:** Tolkein's & Rowling's. Not mine.

**Author's Notes: **Plot device coming up in the chapter! Did you guess or not? I'm dying to know.

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"So this is the beast that has all of Edoras astir with gossip?"

Harry lifted his head to greet the two strangers who had entered his stall. It was early morning. Gifu had fallen asleep in the hay rather than return home, which Harry found surprising. Surely the boy would want to see his father? Gifu had looked exhausted though, so Harry had not the heart to wake him.

He turned his attention to his new visitors. Both blondes, again. Harry hadn't seen a dark head of hair since his arrival; another potential problem to consider should he attempt to blend in. They stood tall and proud, these men, and had an air of undeniable authority about them. Their clothes were finer than he'd seen others wear and cleaner too. Obviously men of import, then.

He pricked up his ears. Perhaps he could learn something from them.

"He looks intelligent enough," one of them was saying. "Good, strong lines. Bit small, though."

"Size isn't everything, Éomer," replied the other with a smirk.

Éomer snickered. "I wouldn't know, dear cousin. It's never been a problem with which I've had to contend."

There then followed a round of tasteless comments and bawdy laughter that had Harry wanting to roll his eyes in disgust. Maybe he wouldn't learn anything from these two idiots after all.

"Now now, Théodred," Éomer eventually put in, "I didn't come down here to trade insults with you. I can do that easily enough at home."

"And you can lose easily enough at home too! But you are right. Let's take a look at our new friend."

Harry stood patiently as they ran their hands over him, lifting his feet and inspecting his mouth. It wasn't unpleasant. On the contrary, they seemed to know exactly where and how to touch him so that he would not be startled. They knew just the right places to scratch too!

"Well, it's a mystery, that's for certain!" Théodred exclaimed. "Unshod, unbranded and un-gelded, yet he stands here as placid as an aging cart horse."

"We knew he must have a steady temperament, to keep to a walk in that thunderstorm last night. Any other horse would have bolted in fright. And look at that soft mouth! I'd wager he's never seen a bit in his life."

"Maybe Godléan was right. Maybe he is a gift from Béma."

Éomer grunted noncommittally. "The blow Godléan took to his head was as nasty as I've ever seen. I'm not surprised he thought he saw The Hunstman. He probably thought he was about to join his company."

"You don't believe him then?"

"It doesn't matter what I believe. It gives the people hope to think that Béma is watching over us, and we need reason to hope in these dark times."

Harry was intrigued. So this Béma was some sort of deity, then? A diety who would give a horse as a gift? He was beginning to take the measure of these people. Horses seemed to have great weight in this culture. Everywhere he looked he saw horse-inspired symbols and carvings. Even the men's clothes bore the motif of a white horse upon a green background. Lucky for him!

But what were these 'dark times' Éomer spoke of? Had it to do with those strange, black creatures he had found?

Both men had turned sombre now, in stark contrast to their previous jovial banter. Harry frowned internally. For all their differences, these men were still soldiers, and he was only too familiar with the signs of soldiers fighting a desperate war. These were no fools, as he had thought, but merely men enjoying what time they had, when they knew not what the future held in store.

Harry had been like them once. He nudged Théodred's shoulder with his nose - a gesture of sympathy.

Éomer laughed. "He seems to like you."

"Of course he does! He has taste!" Théodred chuckled, ruffling the shaggy, black forelock. "But I doubt Godléan would appreciate it if I stole his new mount"

"Not to mention how it would look for the son of Théoden to turn horse-thief!" Éomer released a short bark of laughter. The noise startled Harry into backing into his water pail, which overturned with a clatter.

Gifu awoke with a start.

"Oops," offered Éomer. Théodred rolled his eyes and snickered.

"My… my lords!" Gifu stuttered, anxiously searching their faces. "Is everything alright?"

"Aye, lad, everything is fine. We have good news! Your father will recover."

Gifu's relief was palpable. "Thank you."

"Don't thank us, lad. Tend to your duties. It's him you ought to thank, after all."

Gifu was up in a flash. The men waited until he had run off with the pail before turning back to their conversation.

"I will ride out to the Fords on the morrow," Théodred murmured, breaking the silence.

Éomer gave him a sharp look. "So soon? I thought you were not due to leave for another week."

"There has been movement in Isengard. I will know more when I get there."

"Will you take Grimbold's company, then? They are fresh."

Théodred nodded. "Aye. Come, let us return to my chambers and go over the plans. I would value your insight, cousin."

Harry followed their departure with curious eyes.

Well, that was interesting! Not just soldiers but leaders also. Some sort of nobles, by the way Gifu had addressed them. This society must be an aristocracy, with a clear division of class. Harry decided he needed to find out more about the ruling structure and who was a part of it. They would be the ones who would decide his fate when the time came to reveal his true identity.

"Here you are, lad!" a voice piped up. Gifu had returned with fresh water.

Harry blinked. It was decidedly odd to be called 'lad' by such a young boy. Ah well, he wasn't complaining. He had, for obvious reasons, not spent much of his time in stables before now and therefore did not have much experience to compare his current conditions against. Yet he knew that, though the accommodation might be a little medieval, the level of care these people gave their horses was unsurpassed. Gifu was treating him like royalty! Harry almost felt guilty.

Almost.

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In the next couple of days Harry learned a lot about the world in which he now lived. His immediate environment had been his first priority.

To his right was stabled a huge dark grey called Hasufel, who had probably been born a brown, or at least a dark bay, before he had greyed out. To his left was an equally large mare named Úhte. Harry didn't care for Úhte much. She had a crabby disposition and had tried to bite him the first time he had poked his nose over the partition. Harry felt positively dwarfed next to them. It was decidedly unfair that he be just as short as a horse as he was in human form!

Gifu had practically taken up residence in his stall, which had limited Harry's options significantly. Transforming in front of the poor lad would be a poor introduction. He'd probably scare the boy half to death!

While this had prevented him from exploring more of Edoras in his human form, as he had originally planned, Gifu's presence had ensured a steady stream of visitors. Ealdor and Higeróf, the gentle man, had come to see him as well. Their conversations had been extremely enlightening.

He had also indulged in a little cautious legilimency to glean those facts he could not discern from idle talk. What he had seen was disturbing. These people were at war but it was not a war over land or resources. The black creatures, these 'orcs,' seemed to have no purpose other than the wanton destruction of life. They were sadistic killers and, from the images he had seen in the soldiers' minds, they had every right to fear them.

Not all the knowledge he came by was so gruesome. He learned that these people were, for the most part, good-hearted and strong. They had strong codes of conduct, tightly bound to the land and their horses.

Gifu tended to him noon and night, only disappearing to complete his other chores and take his meals. Gifu's mother, a middle-aged woman named Wynsum with a friendly smile and crooked teeth, popped by at least once a day to check him over. Apparently he was Godléan's horse now, and that meant he had been all but adopted into the family.

On the third day, however, a familiar scent caught his attention. Harry flung up his head in surprise.

Godléan appeared at the entrance to his stall, gazing at him with a mixture of pride and wonder. He looked a little pale, with his head wrapped in bandages and one arm strapped tightly to his chest, but he was undoubtedly much improved! Gifu and Wynsum did not follow him into the stall but stood back to watch, as did a few of the stable-hands.

"Ho there," Godléan murmured softly. Harry pricked up his ears and whickered in greeting, relieved to find the man so recovered. He had looked like death the day they had met!

"Well, look at you!" Godléan breathed. "I thought I had dreamt you. Aren't you a beauty?"

Harry snorted and tossed his mane. Beauty, indeed!

Godléan laughed. "Wynsum told me you were a fine animal but…" he lowered his voice to a conspiring whisper, "…you know how women are. They always favour a grey, even when it's a cow-hocked, splay-footed donkey pretending to be a pony."

"I heard that!"

"Hush, woman! Can't you see I'm having a moment with my horse here?" Muffled snickers reached Harry's ears and Godléan shook his head in exasperation. "Never you mind them. Now let me take a look at you. Has Gifu been taking good care of you?"

With that, Godléan proceeded to give him the third examination in as many days. Harry snorted restlessly. Really, he was getting a little fed up of being prodded and poked!

Apparently satisfied, Godléan motioned his son forward. "You've done a good job, Gifu. You'll make a fine Rider of the Mark someday."

Gifu swelled with pride. "Aye, Papa, but he's been a proper gentleman, he has. Never causes any trouble."

"Have you thought of a name for him yet?"

The boy's jaw dropped open. "Me? No, of course not! He's your horse, Papa!"

"You're the one who's spent three days with him. You know him better than me right now. Help your old man out, hmm?"

Gifu's face lit up. "Well, he might not be a tall or strong as Fordón was but look at his proportions. They're almost as fine as Snowmane's!"

"Ah, you set your standards too high, Gifu! Snowmane is one of the Mearas, and the King's horse besides."

"It's true, Papa, take a good look at him. Look at how deep his chest and hindquarters are, how short his back is. He's built for speed!"

Godléan smiled indulgently. "He will be fast, aye. I look forward to testing him. So what will you name him? Fleetfoot? Hræd, maybe?"

"Hræd! No, not Hræd but… what about Arod?"

"Arod," Godléan nodded, "Meaning swift. It is a fitting name."

Gifu beamed.

Harry sighed inwardly. It could have been worse, he supposed. For some reason he had never managed to discover, Hermione had insisted on calling him Merrylegs.

-----------------------------------

**Names:**

Godléan- God's gift

Gifu - grace

Wynsum - pleasant

Higeróf - valiant

Úhte - dawn

Hasufel - grey coat

Fordón - destroyer

Béma - Rohirric name for the Valar Oromë


	4. Chapter 4

**Title:** Is that a carrot in your pocket?

**Author:** dapper scavenger

**Type:** FPS

**Rating:** PG for now. Will likely increase later.

**Disclaimer:** Tolkein's & Rowling's. Not mine.

**Author's Notes:** For those of you that didn't catch the reference, Merrylegs was the name of the little grey pony in Black Beauty. The implication is that Hermione used this name to make fun of Harry's height (or lack thereof). As for Harry remaining in horse form for extended periods of time, let's not worry about that. After all, if Sirius Black can remain a dog for over a decade and retain his mind, I doubt a couple of weeks as a horse is going to cause Harry any mental issues. *chuckles* Besides, it's even less a problem for Harry, for reasons which will be revealed later.

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Planning was a skill that came naturally to Harry. The ability to assess a situation, to perceive even the slightest of details whether consciously or not, and to use that information to his best advantage, was likely the reason the sorting hat had debated placing him in Slytherin. Indeed, it was this selfsame brand of Slytherin patience that had aided him so greatly in the war against Voldemort.

True, it had been Gryffindor valour that had carried him through the fight, but all the bravery in the world would have meant nothing if he had not waited until the right moment to strike.

In the stables of Edoras, Harry had been granted ample time in which to observe and contemplate his options.

He had regained the full measure of his magic; the land here so inherently steeped in dormant power that it had only taken a few days. This magic had a thick, sleepy feel to it, as though teetering on the twilight verge of wakefulness. It was incredibly powerful. Harry knew that had he absorbed it any faster he would have been overwhelmed by its sheer potency.

It was so very unlike the magic of his previous home. That had been quicker and lighter, but less substantial also, like water compared to rich honey. Harry didn't really know what to make of the difference.

It didn't matter, he supposed. All that really mattered was that he learned to adapt to this constraint.

Many believed that wandless magic was impossible for the average witch or wizard. That was only partially correct. Any magical creature could cast without a wand but there was a price to pay. A wand was a channel, a conduit, which combined the caster's intent with external power to create a spell. Without a wand, the caster was forced to use their internal store of power. The greater the reservoir of magic that the witch or wizard was able to contain, the more spells they could cast before exhausting themselves. Most simply did not have that great a capacity.

Harry's, as it just so happened, was enviably large.

He could have restored his magic quicker, of course, if he'd refrained from using it altogether, but necessity had intervened, as it always did, forcing him to cast a few discreet summoning and levitation charms. Those, coupled with a notice-me-not charm, had resulted in the reasonable set of clothes that currently lay hidden in the rafters: a pair of plain trews, a tunic, a cowl and a pair of boots.

The boots had been the hardest to obtain. Harry still felt terrible about the argument that had arisen between two of the stable-hands. These were not wealthy people. To them, a pair of boots was an important and costly item to replace. Harry had initially thought to transfigure a pair from a pile of rags but permanently altering the physical structure of an object required far more magic than he was willing to sacrifice right now. He would simply have to make it up to the man later.

In any case, Harry felt suitably prepared when he sensed the change in the weather. The air had turned humid and the temperature plummeted as the mist rolled in, followed by a fine drizzle that didn't so much soak as it did coat everything it touched with a layer of moisture. It was the perfect opportunity. There would not be many people abroad tonight.

Harry waited until Gifu had left before transforming, then quickly dressed in his scavenged clothes. They had needed a cleansing _scourgify_ charm but Harry did not begrudge that use of his magic in the slightest!

One surreptitious glance around the stables and he was off. Harry had to fight to keep himself to a walk. It felt so good to be out of that damned stall! Sure, Gifu had taken him out into a training area under the watchful eyes of his father but cantering around on a lunge-line had been an utterly insufficient method of exorcising his restlessness.

He began by walking the full perimeter of the palisade. Getting in and out unnoticed would indeed be difficult for the average man; the fences were well-built and well-manned. Not that he was thinking of going anywhere just yet. Where would he go?

After a quick but thorough reconnoitre of the living areas, he cast his eyes up towards the great hall that rose up from the mound. Meduseld, he had heard it called, the Hall of Kings.

Entering the Great Hall turned out to be surprisingly easy. An abruptly cancelled levitation charm on a large stone had distracted the guards long enough for him to slip past, his concealing charm still in place.

_Oldest trick in the book,_ Harry mused with grim satisfaction.

He avoided the open hall, at the centre of which an open fire blazed invitingly and cast an orange and golden glow onto the mighty pillars that held the roof aloft. Though large and paved with cold stone, the warmth from that fire filled the room. Harry shivered as the heat permeated his sodden clothes, taking the chill from his clammy skin.

At the far end of the hall there stood a chair, so prominently placed and elaborately decorated that he knew it at once for the throne it was. No king occupied it at this late hour, though there were several men milling about the fire, talking in low, indistinguishable murmurs. Harry turned and chose one of the doorways leading to a side corridor instead.

So it was that he travelled the passageways of Meduseld, a privilege very few not of Rohirric blood had ever enjoyed.

Ahead, lowered voices ahead made him pause. They sounded tight, restrained, angry. Harry was intrigued.

"He barely knows me, Éomer! He barely even knows his own son!" a feminine voice protested.

"Not all of us are so fortunate as to die in battle. He is old. His mind is not what it was."

"His mind was well not so very long ago. It isn't right! Only some work of evil could have wrought such a swift change."

"Listen to yourself, Éowyn! Grasping at fancies and shadows like an ignorant washer-woman. It is beneath you."

"How can you say that? How can you not see how Grima poisons our uncle's mind with his foul words and still believe that there are no unnatural forces at work?"

From his hiding place, Harry stifled a gasp. _Work of evil? Unnatural force? _Could that mean what he thought, what he hoped, it meant? He risked a peek around the corner. Two figures stood in the darkened hallway. Éomer he recognised from his visits to the stables. The other was a pale lady with long, white-blonde hair. Harry immediately knew her for the noble she was. If her dress had not given her away, her bearing surely would have, for she stood tall and proud, and her eyes glinted like frozen water.

"Grima is a repellent creature, aye, but he has the king's ear," Éomer was saying. "It is not wise to speak of him thus."

"I will speak of him how I please!" Éowyn all but growled.

Éomer sighed. "I share your concerns but we must be cautious. Wait until Théodred returns from the Fords. We will try to talk to him again then."

His words seemed to placate Éowyn, for she nodded and murmured her agreement before they took their leave of each other. Harry frowned thoughtfully as Éowyn walked in his direction; he had just been struck by a dreadfully Gryffindorish notion.

He waited until Éomer was out of sight before stepping out of the shadows.

"I can help," he said quietly, his concealing charm instantly unravelling.

Éowyn gasped and whirled on the spot. Harry was impressed that she did not startle and call for the guards as he had feared but then he had already surmised she was a woman of some mettle.

"Who are you?" she demanded imperiously. "What is your business here?"

"My name is Harry, my lady, and I wish to help. I overheard your conversation; if this Grima has truly worked dark magic upon your uncle, he must be stopped."

Éowyn scoffed. "A man with a child's name and a child's frame. What value can I possibly find in such an offer?"

Inwardly Harry was scowling at the insult. It wasn't his fault everyone in this land was so tall! Just because he was short it did not mean he was a child! Outwardly, however, he strove to maintain a cool visage. "Do not judge by my appearance. When dealing with the unnatural, I am more than capable."

Éowyn regarded him curiously then. "A bold claim," she challenged evenly.

Harry smiled. With an unnecessary but showy flick of his wrist he sent a shimmer of light twirling around his arm to coalesce in his open palm: a simple variation on the _lumos _charm often used to entertain small children. Going by the dramatic widening of Éowyn's eyes, Harry felt he had proved his point. He cancelled the spell as quickly as he had cast it and the corridor darkened once more.

"A wizard?" Éowyn gasped. She gawped for a moment but collected herself rapidly. Throwing a fervent glance to either side, she nodded sharply. "If you can restore my uncle I would be greatly in your debt but you must take care. Wizards are no longer welcome in Rohan in these dark times - not even Gandalf, who once had the king's favour, for he took the most prized of all our horses, the _Mearas_ Shadowfax."

Although he gave all appearance of one who was listening intently and heeding his companion's every word, Harry was desperately struggling not to let out a jubilant whoop. There were others like him here! Other wizards! And, presumably, witches too. Finally some good news!

He wasn't terribly impressed with this Gandalf fellow. A horse-thief! How despicable! It seemed it didn't matter what world he was in; there were always a few bad apples. Not every wizard was cut from the same cloth. Still, he only needed to find one wizard in order to find the rest. First, though, he had to help Éowyn. He was such a soft touch sometimes.

"I will be careful, my lady. No one will find me unless I wish to be found." he whispered in return. "As to your problem, you must first tell me as much as you know, so that I may devise the best way to overcome it."

Éowyn motioned him to follow her into a private room before beginning her tale.

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	5. Chapter 5

**Title:** Is that a carrot in your pocket?

**Author:** dapper scavenger

**Type:** FPS

**Rating:** PG for now. Will likely increase later.

**Disclaimer:** Tolkein's & Rowling's. Not mine.

**Author's Notes:** Bit of a filler, but a necessary one. Now, as to the question of Harry's height: he isn't completely tiny - he's just particularly short compared to the men of Rohan, who Tolkein described as "tall and long-limbed." It doesn't help that he's fairly slender as well, hence the reason Éowyn compared him to a child. Hmmm... I was leaving it purposely ambiguous because readers often like to infer those kind of things for themselves, but if it were me I'd put him somewhere between 5'0 and 5'6 maybe? (Mede told me off for making him too tall *lol*) He'd probably reach Éomer's chest. :p What can I say? I like 'em cute.

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The information Éowyn had imparted was mind-boggling. It had been a delicate conversation, with Harry attempting to learn as much as possible without giving away his own ignorance. He had been hard pressed to evade Éowyn's probing queries. Nevertheless, her need for assistance outweighed whatever misgivings she may have had and she had soon filled in the gaps in Harry's knowledge.

The wizard now found himself in something a quandary.

The war the people of Rohan were fighting was, in many ways, similar to the one from which Harry was still recovering. Their enemy were dark creatures that sought to destroy anything that was not like them. There would be no parlay. They would not negotiate, and to surrender meant death. There was no choice but to fight.

Harry stamped a hoof against the straw-covered stone floor and snorted restlessly, pacing the confines of his stall. This was the absolute opposite of what he had wanted when he had performed the ritual! He had wanted peace, not another war! He didn't want to fight again, to risk his life and those of his friend's, losing everything he loved one agonising piece at a time. He couldn't go through that again. It would destroy him.

And yet, he couldn't stand back and do nothing. He was the only one that could help Éowyn and her uncle, the king. What sort of person would he be if he didn't at least try? How could he let these people struggle against something they could never hope to defeat? Especially when they fought so valiantly and so unflinchingly that Godric Gryffindor himself would have been humbled by their courage.

He couldn't. And how he cursed himself for that simple truth!

Harry dropped his nose to the ground and sighed heavily. All this worrying was hardly going to help matters, he decided. Tonight he would meet with Éowyn again; she was going to find a way for him to see the king. He would do well to get some rest.

Unfortunately, Godléan's plans were somewhat different. The battered man appeared at the entrance to his stall mid-morning, halter in hand. Harry paused in his restive pacing and regarded him curiously

"Ho there, my beauty," Godléan murmured, raising the halter to the horse's cheek with his good arm. Harry approved of this gently, gently approach but he was rather concerned that the man was doing this instead of his son. Godléan was still recuperating! What was he thinking?

Gifu apparently agreed. "Papa," the boy piped up, "I can take him for you"

"I know, son, but I mean to take the measure of him after he's been to the farrier. It's about time he started earning his keep."

"He's already earned his place, Papa. It can wait a few days."

"A few days? No, lad, not for a horse like this. Did you not see him circling his stall like an angry wolf? He needs to be worked! Anyway, what use is a horse that does nothing but eats and sleep all day long? No use at all, that's what!"

Harry got the impression that the man wasn't just talking about horses. He knew Godléan's type: the stubborn old soldier whose only sense of self-worth was in their usefulness. Moody had been like that. Most aurors would have happily taken the ministry's retirement package after receiving his kinds of injuries but not Moody. He had fought until his very last breath.

If Godléan were only half as stubborn as Moody had been, he would never abide infirmity. It was no wonder he was pushing himself back to work so soon.

Perhaps it was this comparison to a man he had so admired that caused Harry's respect for his inadvertent rider to grow. Without even realising what he was doing, he allowed Godléan to slip the halter over his ears and fasten the buckles. When Godléan led him out of the stable, he suppressed his usual impatient cavorting to a staid walk, shortening his gait to match the man's.

Harry never even noticed the man observing his behaviour with a thoughtful frown. He was too lost in his own thoughts.

Godléan had raised a very good point earlier, the small stallion acknowledged. He was leeching off these people, accepting their food and shelter without earning it first. It was dishonest.

Perhaps he would see what Godléan asked of him. Running, carrying, pulling… those were the sorts of things working horses did, right? That didn't sound so bad.

After the war, Harry had developed a fondness for physical work. He had taken several such jobs in the muggle world. It was an untold relief to simply follow orders for a change; to not have to bear the stresses and strains of leadership. Too many times he had made a decision that had resulted in someone's death. No matter that there was no other option, that the alternatives would have been far worse, he had never been able reconcile himself with the terrible choices he had been forced to make. Compared to that, the monotony of manual labour was bliss.

No, Harry decided, a little bit of hard graft never hurt anyone.

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Six hours later, Harry wasn't so sure about his earlier assessment.

The farrier had insisted on shoes. Apparently a horse of his slight stature would suffer greater wear and tear of the hooves if made to carry the weight of a rider in full armour. Added to his tendency towards stable-circling, shoes became a necessity. Harry was surprised. He hadn't even realised it was considered a bad habit to pace one's stall. It just went to show you learnt something new everyday.

His legs felt heavy, the strange weight of the metal shoes made it feel as though he was walking through thick mud. It actually reminded him of the first time he had tried on dragon-hide boots but he would get used to it soon enough, he supposed.

It wasn't the shoes that were the problem.

In the last few hours Harry had been subjected to every manner of torture device at Godléan's disposal. Saddles and stirrups, reins and breaststraps, not to mention a rather alarming-looking face mask. Harry endured it as stoically as he could. He only raised one objection. He was not, under any circumstances, going to put that stinky-looking bit of metal into his mouth. Who knew how many mouths it had already been in? It was revolting!

Harry had tried to politely decline. He had tossed his head and turned away in disgust. The man had spent an inordinate length of time gently coaxing him to lower his head, pressing his hand on the spot just behind his ears and praising him for the slightest downward movement.

That was a mistake. With a practised ease, Godléan attached the halter he was wearing to a tie-down hook.

Harry gave Godléan an annoyed glare and snorted angrily.

The man simply resumed his patient sweet-talking. After a while, he began to tickle Harry's lips before sliding his fingers into the space behind his teeth. Harry stiffened in shock. Fingers! In his mouth! Get them out! He didn't care how good they tasted, he wanted them out!

Wait…

Harry blinked. Why did they taste good? Was that… honey?

The horse in him had just died and gone to heaven. That was _really_ _nice_!

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Harry was sulking.

His rider was evil. In fact, he was fairly certain Godléan was this world's version of Lord Voldemort.

He stalked angrily alongside the man, who he was starting to regret having saved, imagining all the lovely ways he was going to take revenge. He wouldn't do anything just yet, of course. Attacking an injured man was, well, it just wasn't cricket!

Not that Harry had ever played cricket but wizards didn't have a comparable saying. Quidditch was about as unsportsmanlike game as he had ever come across.

Regardless, Godléan was as sneaky and underhanded as any slytherin he had ever met and Harry was not in the mood to forgive him any time soon. Was this any way to express his gratitude? Sticking a nasty piece of metal in his mouth? Harry was not even remotely impressed.

Oh yes, he would allow the man to train him. Knowledge was power, after all, and Harry had quickly realised that his skills in battle, while considerable as a wizard, were rather poor as a horse. He couldn't wield a blade or a wand and his back was a giant platform which cried out '_come eat me_!" to any passing predator. A horse fought with very different weapons: the hooves, the teeth, the shoulders. He had brute strength on his side but not a lot else. It would behoove him to try to learn Godléan's techniques.

A great deal of this training seemed to involve keeping calm under pressure. This was something Harry had long ago mastered, though, he had to confess, it would be amusing to play up a little. Godléan had drafted in some friends to help with the tests. Harry appreciated the audience.

The first time the gathered men began to shout and holler Harry just stood there, looking rather bored. Eventually he reached down and whiffed Godléan's pockets, as though searching for treats. Godléan signalled the men to stop.

"Well, that's promising," he murmured. "Ealdor, why don't you try him with the sword?"

Ealdor hopped off the fence he had been sitting on and picked up a sword and shield. As soon as he rattled the metal together, Harry charged. The stallion ripped free of Godléan's grasp, screaming at the top of his enormous lungs. Ealdor ran for his life.

"Béma's balls!" Ealdor croaked after catching his breath. "That's not a horse! It's a warg in disguise!"

Harry wasn't sure what a warg was but the others certainly thought it was funny. Godléan threw back his head and laughed loudly.

"He's got spirit! Can you imagine him in battle? He'll be magnificent!"

"Rather you than me," Ealdor replied. "He's worse than Úhte!"

Harry whickered happily, returning to Godléan's side and nosing his good arm gently as if to say "That was fun! Let's do it again!"

"Never," Godléan said. "Arod's as sweet as a kitten most of the time, even when he's in a mood like today. Úhte is always cantankerous! It's interesting, though, the way he reacted."

Ealdor nodded in agreement. "Almost like he's had some training before. It'll make your job easier, at any rate."

"I hope so. I don't want to be left behind again."

"You won't be. We'll make sure of it," Ealdor promised. Godléan smiled gratefully and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Well, come on, then," he said gruffly. "We've got work to do."

By the time night fell, Harry was exhausted.

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End file.
